


semper fidelis.

by MissHellstrom



Category: Far Cry, Far Cry 5
Genre: Army, Brotherhood, Emptiness, Healing, Interior monologue, Light depression, Monologue, Nightmares, Other, SOLDIER - Freeform, dont really know what is this, farcry - Freeform, farcry5 - Freeform, homeless center, no sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 08:34:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissHellstrom/pseuds/MissHellstrom
Summary: Dreams are timeless, as the body is paralyzed and the mind travels far away kidnapped by the sins he has committed.Whirlingly, perennially, travels.Dreaming about war was easy to remember, he doesn’t even need to close his eyes to feel it — — making him shiver, with the urge to scream.





	semper fidelis.

**Author's Note:**

> Special mention to the person who helped me with the editing, much love for Wrath ( yes-to-wrath on tumblr )! Please keep in mind english is not my first language, I tried my best.
> 
> ENJOY.

Part of his head was constantly buried in that pillow, its faded but soft superficy soaked with the sweat of the apathetic man.  
There was something incredibly simple in his surrender, pretending it was all there, as if it was his last goal.  
It was the cruel irony of a materialistic world, when once the things that fed it were gone the rest just extinguished, gulfed down by it.  
And so it was now his turn, too, to be consumed.  
Was this the world? The world he had believed in - even fought for - all of his life? The same that crushed and squeezed him of all remaining leftovers.

He had always thought to be in charge of his life; that Jacob Seed, thinking to be able to make a difference in this egoistical world. To finally realize he was just an ant in the umpteenth colony of many, an identification number at the mercy of the United States, a property, something physical and easy to buy, like an house. He basically became an house.  
A beautiful house, yes, with freshly dried plaster, shiny glass and all those spaces ready to be filled. Not like now, with the devastation that had faded the walls, made the windows crack like tired limbs, a house soaked with the smell of stale, almost suffocating.  
Discovering the lie changed everything, it had shaken his foundations, though never as much as the hunger, the thirst, the deprivation already did, undermining it.

He finds some sort of fake comfort in that almost constant stasis he’s fallen in, since there is not much he can enjoy in the center, even now that his body has practically healed.  
Jacob tried, oh, if he did try!  
With so much insistence; he tried, to stay and heal in a more dignified place. But the hospital simply blew him away, a bit like the army swept him outside it’s view once there was nothing left of his merited pay but his tired bones and dusty medails.  
So the lamb lies on his pillow, aching and thinking how weak he has become, like expendable meat to a slaughter that is too cowardly to really come for him. He’s basically breathing his own dust and the textile of his cushion reminds him the taste of some cheap product, still not dirty but he’s not sure he would really notice any difference.  
He is pressed against it as if the pillow could really suffocate him right when his thoughts become too heavy or violent, as if they were piercing his whole frame, offering him something to bite however, to avoid splitting his lips and slit his tongue left with the desire to lose consciousness so deeply, he’ll never be brought back.

The remembrance of the war comes back knocking at his door, forcing itself in and patting him like the good dog he was, paralyzing him every time.  
It was so easy: a chair slammed and there he was again, ears hurting like hell for the violence of a shot or an explosion, his skin pulled and dry, stretching as if he’d be skinned like a pig, each minute, each seconds making it more difficult to breath by all the toxic dust that invaded even his nostrils, surely the worst part of it wasn’t the constant smell of blood he’d get at any moment of the damn day. He could distinguish its status and provenance, his hands being dipped in it one too many times, raging on wounds that he himself often caused.  
Blood, so thick and ferrous, scent so pungent he had the illusion of even feeling its taste; red covering his eyes and obscuring his vision; even now, it pinches him like he’s a crazy bull as reality fades to become illusion, or does it truly, he often asks himself as a deep part of his mind knows that it is not there. Just as he knows there is nothing of the sort around him there, no the desert or the last waste piece of an encampment, even if the place where he actually is has nothing, nothing can be defined dignified, regarded. By those who possess, those who made martyrs from the innocents and the gullible.

People left him pretty much alone, he wouldn’t have much to tell them anyway if they ever happen to try starting a conversation with him. People, or at least outside his nightmares. Those who shake Jacob with nothing for him to do about it, even realizing it, as nightmares cannot be ignored or suffocated against a pillow, trying to escape the breathing until it is vital, a destructive apnea that requires body and mind to focus on something else just for him to take a few gasps.  
The clock keeps him company when he is awake, he invokes the ticking, counts the bells until he gets the release and he constantly clings to its constant schedule.

Tick tock, the sand that still dirties his hands while he refines the umpteenth layer.  
Tick tock, the noise of grinding teeth, the grains that probably come in and scratch, settle in his lungs.  
Tick tock, a blood splash that stains his face. From a fully cut artery, taking in the shape of a distorted smile so hot and electrifying.  
Tick tock, a blast that makes the ground rise like in a sandstorm, and then the images of the soul that fades, because now the body is fighting in its stead.  
Tick tock, the noise is rewinded, the bomb that still explodes but that seems more and more distant.  
Tick tock.  
Tick tock.  
Tick tock, and he must stop.  
He must stop, he must breathe, bite the pillow a little harder.

Dreams are timeless, as the body is paralyzed and the mind travels far away kidnapped by the sins he has committed.  
Whirlingly, perennially, travels.  
Dreaming about war was easy to remember, he doesn’t even need to close his eyes to feel it — — making him shiver, with the urge to scream.  
Whirling around him, threatening to drown him at the weight of those rotten memories he cannot shake himself off.  
The simple thought of forgetting what he has done and which cannot be undone makes him guiltier than he’s ever been.  
Dreaming about war was easy to remember, he doesn’t even need to close his eyes to feel it — — making him shiver, with the urge to scream his rage and the unfairness of the world, it’s uncaring shadow covering all but the parasites that infest it.  
Weak, they are all weak, hiding inside their towers of paper soon to be crumbled by the undying wind of violence.  
But his mind always finds new ways of playing it all, it doesn’t allow space, the claustrophobic scenery worse than suffocation.  
And here’s the sadistic second half of a trauma he never got over.  
A nightmare he doesn’t always remember, not clearly, he just knows it, that particular one doesn’t need a scalding desert or a gun fight to be terrifying.

Jacob is on the ground, shot down by only-God-knows-what , but he cannot stay there. He just can’t.  
Two figures out of focus, struggling in their movements, one much lower than the other.  
He begins to see their feet, as if they had a familiar cadence, starting from the end.  
He doesn’t really need to look up to identify them, he knows who they are, and yet the cerulean look rises desperately to reach them before it’s too late, his body crawling and the split elbows used as leverage. Both faces are hidden, covered by something metaphysical, a veil that even he does not get to touch.  
He never reaches for them.  
Them. Them. Them.  
He should have saved them when he got the chance. From their own family, from what had done to them, the way they had been from each other.  
But he failed, he always fails.  
And now he can’t even see them, everything’s fading and soon enough he’ll be alone.  
Jacob should have saved them, perhaps they have already been saved, but at what price? There is no them, and it’ll never will be.  
Everything is erased by a whirlwind of black powder and blood. Everything fades but not him, not the failure nor the withering yet undying awareness.  
Only him, and a chilling silence that tastes of death and guilt, a silence interrupted by the slow and desperate articulation of two names.  
Joseph and John.  
Joseph and John.  
Joseph and John.

Time’s out, it does not exist, but Jacob can still hear it, the ticking.


End file.
